


Remember This

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27419707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Crowley loses his memory after bumping his head—and Aziraphale has trouble explaining not just who they are, but what they mean to each other.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110





	Remember This

Everything had been tickety-boo that evening. Nothing unusual, just another pleasant round of drinking and chatting at the bookshop. Nothing should have happened, Aziraphale thought. 

Certainly not his dear friend Crowley forgetting pretty much everything that had happened to him from the beginning of Creation.

The bump on the head really hadn’t seemed that bad. It happened late into the night, after the sixth or seventh bottle of wine—he’d lost track. Crowley was making extravagant gestures to illustrate a point about Siamese cats, though why they were discussing the creatures in question was beyond Aziraphale’s ability to recall.

“They _know_ what you’re thinking,” Crowley said, with a wave of his hand. He perched on the edge of the sofa, a full glass of wine in the other hand, and he leaned forward, brows furrowed. “ _Dogs_ don’t know what you’re thinking. Just little canine brains running on _treats_ and _walkies_.” He pointed a finger in Aziraphale’s general direction—the armchair by the desk—though the finger wavered wildly. “Other _cats_ don’t know anything—just _open the door_ , and _feed me_. But _they’re_ different.”

Aziraphale hiccupped. “Siamese cats are different.” How did Crowley know so much about dogs and cats? “Why…why are they different?”

“They’re devil cats.” Crowley swayed on the edge of the sofa.

“Ah, I see. Hell made them?” He didn’t think Hell made any of the creatures on Earth. That was surely God’s bailiwick. “Not possible.”

“Nah.” Crowley downed half the wine in his glass. “Just act like they were. Ever been in a room with one? Their eyes follow you wherever you go, and even if you’re sitting still, they _stare_ at you—as if they’re reading your every thought. They’re _spooky_.”

Aha. Now Aziraphale felt on familiar territory. “You _like_ spooky. Big fan. Told me that.”

“Yeah. That’s right.” Crowley downed the second half of his wine. “That’s not my point.”

Oops. Back to _terra incognita_. “Pardon? What exactly _is_ your point?” And how had they gotten onto this topic in the first place? Aziraphale scratched his head. “Weren’t we talking about houseplants or something?”

“Neighbors. We were talking about my neighbor downstairs.”

Words floated through Aziraphale’s besotted brain. _Don’t tell anyone, Angel, but I take the plants that aren’t perfect to the little old lady downstairs, and only pretend to shred them._ “Yes, I remember now. It was definitely about your plants.”

Crowley nodded vigorously. “Yup. And you know what?”

Aziraphale dutifully shook his head _no_.

“She has a _Siamese cat.”_

So _that_ was how they’d gotten to the devil cat. Aziraphale pursed his lips, trying to recall how they had got to a discussion of Crowley’s plants in the first place. Then again, they’d been chatting and drinking for nearly six hours now, and had covered an awful lot of territory, most of it lost in the fog of inebriation long ago. “Well, your neighbor can have a cat if she likes. Nothing to do with you, my dear.”

“It _looks_ at me. As if it _knows_ something!” Crowley set the glass down and waved both arms wildly, and that was when he slipped off the edge of the sofa and crashed in a completely undignified fashion into the coffee table.

“Oopsy,” Aziraphale remarked.

He got no reply. Crowley lay sprawled on the floor between the sofa and the broken table, face down, unmoving. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. He set down his wine and tried to get up, but his legs did not obey his brain and he plopped right back down. “Oof.” Well, that was how these nights often ended—with the need to sober up. He miraculously refilled the bottles with all the wine within him.

“Crowley!” Fully sober, Aziraphale rose and crossed the short distance to where his friend lay. “Are you all right?” He knelt beside the prone figure, gently touching Crowley’s shoulder.

“Mmph.”

That was a good sign. Aziraphale patted Crowley’s body, and found nothing amiss, but then he ran his hands over his head. He felt a large lump on the right temple. That simply would not do. He touched the spot with angelic healing fingers, and felt it miraculously diminish. “There. That ought to sort you out.”

“Mmrph?” Crowley rubbed at his head, and tried to roll onto his side. “Urgh. Ngk.” He blinked blearily at Aziraphale. “Wha—” Then his eyes closed, his head dropped back to the floor, and he started snoring.

“You need a nice, long rest, my dear.” Aziraphale carefully lifted him onto the sofa. Then he fetched a blanket and pillow, and made his friend comfortable. 

Aziraphale settled into his armchair once more, and picked up a book, but not before putting a Mozart recording on the gramophone to drown out Crowley’s snores.

*

He must have dozed off in the chair, for the book had dropped from his fingers, and sunlight shone into the bookshop. 

Aziraphale picked up the book and set it aside on the desk. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the sofa.

Crowley sat there, wide awake, staring at him.

“Good morning!” Aziraphale cried cheerfully, happy to see him conscious once more. “I’ll make tea.” He rose to bustle off to the kitchenette, where he got the kettle going.

When he returned some ten minutes later bearing two mugs of steaming tea, he found Crowley staring at his own hands. “Um, tea, my dear?” He set a mug on the coffee table, which he had miraculously restored to its unbroken state.

Crowley stared at the tea mug. Then he looked up at Aziraphale. “Where am I?”

“What do you mean, where are you?”

“Looks like a bookshop.”

“Of course it does.” Aziraphale returned to his armchair. What on Earth was Crowley blabbering about? Had that bump on the head been worse than he thought? “It’s _my_ bookshop. Where we drank too much wine last night, and where you fell and hit your head while making disparaging, and may I add, unwarranted remarks about a Siamese cat.”

“What cat?” Crowley stared at him. “And who are you?”

“Your neigh—” Aziraphale nearly spilled his tea. “Crowley! What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Who? Oh, that’s me, is it? Crowley? Crowley what? Odd first name.”

Oh, dear. Aziraphale pursed his lips. He had _healed_ that bump on the head. There shouldn’t be anything wrong still. “Are you saying—do you not remember who you _are?”_ Or who _he_ was…or anything at all?

_Oh dear oh dear oh dear_.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. His friend did have a wily sense of humor, and had been known to enjoy a good practical joke, though aimed at humans, not _him_. “You aren’t playing at some sort of peculiar demonic game, are you? It is not amusing, if you are.”

Crowley blinked. “A _what_ sort of game?” He looked genuinely perplexed. 

“Sorry. Never mind.” Aziraphale set his tea down. He got up and went to the sofa, sitting beside Crowley. “May I examine the place where you hit your head?”

“Shouldn’t I see a doctor or something?”

“Well, I am a—well, a kind of healer.” Aziraphale brought his hand up towards Crowley’s head. “Let me see, please.”

Crowley did not resist. Aziraphale ran his fingers gently over the spot, and found no signs of a bump or any other injury. Just for good measure though, he performed another healing miracle, a general one for all ills. “There. Everything seems fine.” He brought his hand away.

“Felt warm there for a second.” Crowley rubbed at his head. 

“Do you know anything more now?” Aziraphale asked hopefully.

“Nope.” Crowley sighed as he gazed around the bookshop. “I seem to be a man who gets drunk in bookshops, and wears black clothing, and that’s about all I know at the moment.” 

A _man?_ He hadn’t said _demon_. “Um, yes, that’s a start.”

“And this is your bookshop.” Crowley looked at him. “Who are you?”

“Aziraphale. I am—” He didn’t wish to try explaining supernatural entities if Crowley didn’t remember _anything_. “I am your best friend.”

“Ah. Right. Azra Fell?”

“No, no. _Aziraphale_.” He spelled it out.

Crowley snorted. “What sort of name is that?” 

“It’s _my_ name!” Honestly. Amnesia was one thing, rudeness quite another. “It is a perfectly fine name.”

“Just one? Do I just have one? Didn’t think it worked that way.” 

At least he hadn’t forgotten how the human world worked. “Anthony J. Crowley.”

“Hm. Okay. What does the _J_ stand for?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Well, it’s just a _J_ , really.”

Crowley finally picked up his tea, and sipped a little. “Mm. That’s good. So. Azra—azir—fella—”

“Oh, just call me ‘Angel’. You often do.”

_“Angel?”_ Crowley stared at him, eyes wide. “I call you _Angel?”_

“It’s a pet name, that’s all.” He still wasn’t ready to overload the dear fellow with six thousand years of history together. “Nothing more.”

“No? Oh. Fine. Whatever.” 

Was it Aziraphale’s imagination, or had Crowley looked slightly disappointed? “I told you, we’re best friends. We’ve known each other for—well, rather a long time. Oh, I do so wish you would _remember_.”

“So do I.” Crowley hesitated, then added, somewhat tentatively, “ _Angel.”_

Aziraphale had an idea. “Listen, perhaps all you need is more time, and perhaps if you saw more things you should be familiar with, that might help. We could go to your flat.” Surely seeing his own space and belongings would trigger a memory or two…or several thousand.

“Yeah? Is it near here?”

“Not far. Do you remember your automobile?” Surely Crowley wouldn’t forget about the Bentley. Unthinkable.

“Huh.” A little crease appeared in Crowley’s forehead. “Auto…car….”

“You drove it here last night. It’s parked out front.”

Crowley pursed his lips. “Big, is it?”

“Yes! Quite roomy.” This was promising indeed.

“Black?”

“More or less.” It had gray tones as well, but he wasn’t going to quibble. “And it’s rather a bit older than most automobiles today.”

“Queen!” Crowley suddenly looked quite pleased with himself.

“What has the Queen got to do with it?”

“No, not her. The car plays some music by something or someone called Queen. All the time.”

Oh, yes. _Bebop_. “I suppose it does.” Aziraphale absently gave Crowley’s thigh a friendly pat. “Come on, then, drink your tea and we can get going.” He rose and went to his desk, where he picked up his mug and drained the contents.

When he turned round, Crowley was staring at him again with that intense, puzzled expression. “Are we—did you just—” He ran his hand over his thigh where Aziraphale had touched it.

“Finish your tea, my dear.” He had no intention of explaining their complicated friendship at this point. “We will talk about it later.”

“We will?”

“Yes. Now, come along. First we need to get your memory back!”

*

The Bentley proved familiar to Crowley, and he drove it smoothly, and rather fast, through the streets the short distance to Mayfair. 

“That was fun,” he said as he parked it right in front of his building—thanks to a surreptitious miracle which Aziraphale had indulged in. 

He sounded like his old self, but when they walked into to the building, Crowley couldn’t recall which flat was his. Aziraphale had to guide him up to it, and use another quick snap of the fingers to make sure the door was unlocked.

“Do I often leave the door unlocked?” Crowley asked as he walked inside, having not noticed that little miracle.

“Um…well, there are security cameras in the building, I believe. Very safe.”

Crowley stood stock still in the center of the living area—if it could truly be called that, given that it contained only the large desk, a couple of chairs, the TV on the wall, and several statues. “This is where I _live?”_

“There’s a bedroom down the hall, of course. And a bath.” Aziraphale realized he had not seen a kitchen in Crowley’s flat before. “Um…you don’t spend a lot of time here.”

“I don’t?” Crowley gave him a questioning look. “Where do I spend it, then—with you?”

“Ah…no, not exactly.” How did he explain that Crowley had spent his time tempting people and causing mischief, and the rest of his time sleeping or yes, coming to see him for a meal or a stroll…this was tricky territory indeed. Even more so, now that neither he nor Crowley had what humans would call _jobs_ any longer. “That is, we often dine out together, or take walks in St. James’s Park.”

Crowley ran his hand over the marble top of the huge desk. Then he looked at the ostentatious throne chair. “Do I really have that big an ego?”

“I believe it’s just for show.” Not that Aziraphale wished to explain about putting on a front for Hell. “Look, you have some lovely houseplants!” He waved at the stark hallway. “Come and have a look.”

But when they approached the plants, all their leaves began trembling in fear. Crowley backed away. “Are they _supposed_ to do that?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Not exactly.” He tugged at Crowley’s sleeve to pull him away. “Why don’t we look at the other rooms.”

They looked in at the bedroom, and a completely empty room, and then Crowley walked inside a huge bathroom, and came to a startled stop in front of the mirror. 

Which was when Aziraphale realized the sunglasses were still at the bookshop. _Oh dear_.

“My eyes…” Crowley stepped close to the mirror, touching at his eyelids. “What’s wrong with my _eyes?”_

“Er…merely a genetic abnormality. It’s called…uh…serpentoriosus. Quite rare.”

“Genetic.” 

“Um, yes?” Possibly he shouldn’t have said that. It would bring up a question he didn’t wish to answer.

“So it runs in the family.” Crowley stepped back, and fingered his chin, and his nose, and then ran his hand through his unruly hair. “Don’t look half bad, me. So.” He turned to Aziraphale. “Where _is_ my family?”

Precisely the question he wanted to avoid. “Well, you’re not very close. They’re far away. Very, very far away. The ends of the Earth, more or less.”

“Huh. Any other friends I should know about?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. _Friends?_ Acquaintances? _Anybody at all?_ Then he brightened. “You have a neighbor downstairs you visit regularly, a charming elderly woman with a cat.”

Crowley shuddered. “Not going there. They _stare_ at you.”

Ah, yes. That was how this whole insane situation had begun. With a demonic Siamese cat. He wondered if he should take Crowley out to Tadfield to visit Anathema—perhaps the witch would have an idea of how to help. “Would you care for a road trip? We have friends of a sort near Oxford.”

Crowley wandered back out to the living room, and gazed around at its bleak walls. He looked at the huge windows, where fluffy white clouds adorned a brilliant blue sky. “Good weather for a drive. Tadfield, isn’t it?”

“Ah! You remember!”

“I remember _something_.” Crowley scratched his head. “Has to be from a dream or a nightmare, though. There was a weird group of people being attacked by a bunch of kids with a burning sword. That can’t possibly have happened, right?”

_Oh, dear_. “We _did_ go there, my dear. And things happened—well, it’s a bit hard to explain.”

Crowley blinked. “Did you just call me ‘my dear’?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Figure of speech. Old habit. Um. I’m a bit old-fashioned in my ways.”

“Yeah, I can tell by your costume.”

“This is not a cos—oh, dear. Can we just get on the road? You _must_ remember who you are—I simply _cannot_ explain everything. There’s far too much of it!”

“There is?” Crowley’s brow furrowed. “Just what exactly do we—or I— _do_ here? What sort of work am I involved in—running prepubescent assassination gangs?”

“Those children were not—” he broke off. “Oh, botheration. This is impossible. We will go to Tadfield, and see Anathema, and she will sort this out with her—” He stopped in time before saying “witchcraft.”

_“Anathema?”_

“She’s a healer of sorts as well. Come along, my dear.” Aziraphale headed for the door.

“Fine.” Crowley followed, shutting and locking the door behind him. 

*

Crowley drove fast, as usual, so at least that hadn’t changed. He listened to _The Best of Queen_ for most of the journey, then shut off the music.

They turned off the motorway and headed down the narrow road to Tadfield, surrounded by trees. “This road looks familiar.”

“I’m glad to hear it. We were here quite recently, on two separate occasions.”

“Was there an old hospital near Tadfield? Sort of looked like an abbey or something.”

“Yes! A former nunnery and birthing hospital. We visited it.”

Crowley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Why do I have visions of a gun battle there?”

Now he had to explain paintball? And corporate training exercises, and the miraculous ability to turn fake guns into real ones…this was exceedingly difficult. Perhaps he ought to just give up and tell Crowley everything, the whole truth—but no. Aziraphale didn’t wish to risk some sort of overstimulated brain implosion. “It was a just a game. Companies let their employees have fun with harmless weapons which only fire paint.”

“Ah. Paint.” Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “Did we get fired on with paint?”

“Yes—do you remember that?” He hoped Crowley didn’t recall that moment when he had turned his head into a giant snake to deal with the human.

“Sort of. Not all of it. I keep getting flashes of memories. Bits and pieces floating in and out…a lot of it doesn’t make sense, though. Don’t know if it’s real or from a dream.”

“Don’t worry. Anathema will surely sort you out.” Aziraphale noticed a sign for the village. “It’s not much farther.”

“It should be hotter, shouldn’t it?”

“Sorry?”

“I remember feeling very hot while driving here.”

“Er…well, it’s August.”

“Yeah…that’s not it.” Crowley frowned, and then shrugged. “Whatever. Can’t be real. Look, who is this woman with the odd name again?”

“Anathema Device. She is a young American woman who practices ancient arts which may be of some use, I believe.”

“And we met her how?” 

“We, ah, met her during a um…professional conference of sorts. To deal with er…unwanted nuisances in the area—it’s hard to—”

“Explain. Right. Stop saying that, Angel.”

Aziraphale felt momentarily cheered by the quite casual way Crowley used the endearment. “Sorry.”

“What are we, some kind of pest controllers?”

Well, that wasn’t _too_ far from the truth. “Something like that.”

They reached the village, and Crowley seemed to know which way to go to reach Jasmine Cottage without being told, another good sign. Aziraphale brimmed with hope as they pulled up to the gate. “I suppose I ought to have telephoned first. Remiss of me. I do hope she is at home.”

He needn’t have worried. The front door of the cottage opened as they walked down the path, and Anathema beckoned them inside. “I’ve been expecting you two.”

“Ah. A prophecy?”

She ushered them into the sitting room, where tea sat ready on the coffee table. “I do still get my own premonitions from time to time. Please sit.”

He and Crowley dutifully sat on the settee while Anathema took a wingchair. She poured out the tea and handed over their cups. “My own brew. It has a soothing effect on the mind.”

“Thank you. We both need that, I believe.” Aziraphale sipped the tea, which had a pleasant floral aroma. “Do you know what happened?”

“Not entirely. There was a sense that your friend Crowley had injured himself somehow, resulting in a loss of memory.”

“I was drunk,” Crowley put in. “A table got in the way of my head.” He rubbed at his right temple.

“And now the dear fellow can’t remember who he is,” Aziraphale added. Most vexing.”

“Vexing for _you_. It’s driving me round the bloody twist!”

“Now, now,” Anathema said, “let’s not be unhelpful. Drink your tea.”

Her voice brooked no argument. Crowley drank his tea.

“How is young Newton doing?” Aziraphale inquired.

“He has a job at a software company near Oxford.”

“Software? Is that not to do with the computers?” He thought computers did not work for young Pulsifer.

“Oh, yes. He breaks things for them—so they can fix the bugs. He spends all day breaking the software, and he’s quite happy.”

“I am delighted to hear it.”

“We’re going to buy Jasmine Cottage.”

“Ah, a charming place, indeed.”

“Bugger the polite chitchat,” Crowley snapped. “I’m here for a _cure_ , not a ruddy tea party.”

Anathema waved an admonishing finger at him. “Finish your tea,” she said firmly. 

“Bugger the tea.”

So much for the tea’s purported soothing effect, Aziraphale thought. He sighed. “I do apologize for my friend’s behavior. He has been under quite a strain.”

Anathema set her cup aside. “I have studied amnesia in the past. One of my cousins had an incident, and my mother successfully restored his memory. Ever since my presentiment this morning, I’ve had the proper ingredients simmering away in the kitchen. The mixture should be ready soon.”

“I’m so grateful to you,” Aziraphale replied.

She rose. “I’ll just go check on it.” Anathema strode off to the kitchen.

Crowley drank the rest of his tea and set the cup down. “Great. I’m not blind—look at this place!” He gestured around the room. “Paintings of unicorns and black cats. A statue of a face covered with leaves.” He pointed at a large book on the coffee table. _“Folk Remedies and Lore of Britain._ What has she got in there—a big black cauldron full of toad eyes and lizard blood?” He looked at Aziraphale. “What’s wrong with _normal_ doctors?”

What was wrong with normal doctors, of course, was the fact that they would not find a normal human to examine. Their corporations _could_ function the same as human bodies when they wished them to—but they didn’t have to, and a normal doctor might find it a tad confusing to take something so simple as a blood pressure reading when one’s circulatory system was merely for show.

“The young lady is well qualified,” he said. “You will have to trust me on this.” Aziraphale set down his empty cup. He met Crowley’s inquisitive gaze. “I am your best friend, and I know what needs to be done. _Will_ you trust me to help you?”

Crowley looked at him intently, silently, for several agonizing seconds before saying, “Is that all we are? Just _friends?”_

_No_. Well, not entirely…Aziraphale did not know how to tell Crowley that he had yearned for centuries for something more, and had sensed the same feeling in return. Nor did he know how to explain love between spiritual beings, or love between an angel and a demon. “It is complicated,” he said.

Crowley nodded. “More than you think I can handle, is that it?”

“Yes.” 

“You might be wrong.” Crowley reached for Aziraphale’s nearest hand, and pressed it lightly before letting go. “Try me. Start at the beginning.”

Aziraphale smiled at a recent memory, of when he had tried to explain things to Anathema from the beginning, from the garden, and of being shushed by his friend. “It’s a long story.”

“And not an ordinary one, I suspect. Did you lie to me about my eyes, Angel?”

“I did.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. He sighed. “You and I…we are not—that is, we are not exactly human.”

“It did cross my mind.” Crowley let a little sigh of his own. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. I haven’t had a single hunger pang all day. Nor have I felt an urge to visit a toilet. The petrol in my car was nearly empty when we headed out, yet it somehow refilled along the way.”

Aziraphale felt relieved at how calm Crowley’s voice was. Perhaps that tea had a soothing effect after all. “I want you to truly look at me, as steadily and as intently as you can, and I want you to let your mind drift along lightly, trying not to _think_. Try to _feel_ , and to see what images arise, and tell me what they are. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try.” 

“Good.” He took both Crowley’s hands in his as they turned a bit to face each other. “Now. Begin.”

As Crowley stared into his eyes, Aziraphale silently sent healing thoughts towards his dear friend, and he waited, and he hoped. _Bring him back to me_. 

After only a short while, Crowley pursed his lips, and blinked those serpentine eyes. “I see wings.”

“Yes? Go on. That’s fine.”

“Is that why I call you ‘angel’?” But before Aziraphale could reply, Crowley said, “No…that’s not it…but you are, aren’t you? An angel. An actual, real angel…”

“I am.”

Crowley’s eyes widened, and then softened. “I was an angel once.”

“Are the memories returning? Don’t let them come too fast—”

“No…not a lot—there are images, when I look at you. Just a few.” He tilted his head. “Is this real—where we are now? Are we on Earth?”

“We are. We have been here for some time, only you and I, from Heaven and from—” He broke off, uncertain of what to say.

“Hell,” Crowley said. “I’m from Hell. Fallen angel.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“And we’re friends.”

“Yes, we are.”

“That doesn’t seem likely.” Crowley smiled softly. “I can see it, though. I can see you in other clothes—ones from long ago, and I’m there, too, and I’m helping you—not sure what I’m doing, just that you’re in trouble.”

That had happened more times than Aziraphale cared to think about. “You have made a habit of getting me out of trouble over the years.”

“Centuries,” Crowley replied. “Millennia. Astonishing.”

“Once in a while,” Aziraphale said, “I got you out of a spot of trouble, too.”

“Ah. Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.”

Crowley gazed into his eyes longer, and more deeply. “I’m seeing a lot of restaurants, Angel. With lots of bottles of wine. We’re a bit indulgent for spiritual creatures, aren’t we?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I do have a penchant for fine food. And we do both enjoy a good drink.”

“Yeah, I noted that from last night. I’m hearing a phrase in my head… _gone native_.”

“As you said—millennia. We have gotten accustomed to human pleasures. You even sleep quite a lot, though we don’t need to do so.”

“Still seeing lots of meals and drinks,” Crowley said. “We’re laughing a lot. Talking…having good times together.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale had fond memories, too. “We have greatly enjoyed each other’s company.”

“And we’re the only ones up here…or down here for you, I suppose. Why?”

“Part of the Divine Plan, I believe.” The Almighty had only needed one angel and one demon to help avert the end of Her creation. “It’s—dare I say it— _ineffable_.”

Crowley started. “It’s what—” Then he drew a hand away to touch Aziraphale’s face, running his fingers along his cheek. “The wall. For God’s—for Satan—for Somebody’s sake—we met on the bloody great wall of Eden!”

“Take it slowly—”

“No! I want to remember everything!” Crowley leaned in to touch his forehead to Aziraphale’s. “You’re the most important person in my entire existence. I know that. I feel that. I _want_ to remember you!”

“You will, my dear.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, shutting away the contact that might overwhelm Crowley with too many images at once. “Be patient.” Then he turned his head to one side, and drew Crowley into an embrace, holding him tightly.

At which moment, he heard a little cough. 

Aziraphale looked up to see Anathema standing in the doorway, holding a mug. “Hello, there,” she said brightly. “The potion’s ready.”

They let go their embrace. “Sorry. We’ve rather made some progress on our own.”

“I can see that.” She walked over to hand the mug to Crowley. “This should get you all the way back.”

Crowley cradled the mug in his hands. He looked at Aziraphale, eyebrows raised. “I think I already know what I needed to remember most.”

Aziraphale lay a hand on his thigh. “And what would that be?”

“That I love you.”

“Ah.” So much warmth flowed from those three words. “And that I love you, too.”

“That’s what I thought.” Crowley held up the mug. “Cheers.” Then he drank the liquid in one long gulp.

He ran his tongue over his lips, and set the mug on the table, and then they waited.

It did not take but a few minutes before Crowley closed his eyes, and bit his lower lip. “Something’s working….”

“You aren’t in pain, are you?” Anathema hovered near, twisting her fingers. “There shouldn’t be any.”

“No…there’s no pain…just…my head feels foggy. Sort of like it does when I’ve drunk too much, right before I pass—” And then he slumped against Aziraphale’s shoulder, unconscious.

“Crowley!” 

“He’s fine,” Anathema said quickly. “I didn’t want to tell him that would happen—it might have made him anxious, and anxiety can have an adverse effect on the potion.”

Aziraphale held onto Crowley, supporting him. “When will he wake?”

“It should work fairly quickly. No more than a quarter hour, I should think.”

The minutes passed slowly. Aziraphale spent them wishing for the full return of Crowley’s memories, for though the little that he’d already remembered had been the most significant ones, he and Crowley had such an astonishing history together that he didn’t want to lose a single shared moment. 

Six thousand years, and what had sprung back first into his friend’s mind was the caring, the affection, the love—Crowley had a million memories, a billion perhaps—and out of all those years, he had pulled from the darkness the times when an angel needed saving, and the many meals they had shared as friends, and that first portentous meeting on the wall of Eden. And Crowley had known that he loved an angel, and that he was loved in turn.

Those memories, Aziraphale thought fondly, hadn’t needed any miracle to recover. They were woven into Crowley’s soul.

The quarter hour passed, and a few minutes more, and then his friend stirred. Aziraphale brushed a hand along his cheek. “Crowley?”

“Mm…huh?” The golden eyes opened, blinking at him. “Hey. What—” Crowley straightened. He rubbed at his eyes, then looked round the room. “Hello, book girl.”

Anathema let out a sigh of relief. “Hello. Nice to see you again. How do you feel?”

Crowley yawned. “Confused. Why am I in your house?” He looked at Aziraphale, who had let go his hold. “Angel? What’s going on?”

“You fell last night, and hit your head. You weren’t feeling quite right this morning, so we came here. Anathema kindly fixed you up with one of her delightful concoctions.”

“Witchcraft?” Crowley frowned. “Why not an angelic healing miracle?”

“I did try that, my dear. For some reason, it was not entirely effective. Do you recall anything of the past few hours?”

Crowley blinked some more, rubbed his head, and then suddenly it seemed as if a light appeared behind his eyes, only for a second, and then was gone. “Ngk.”

“Ah. I take it the details of your recent discomfort have made themselves clear?”

“I lost my memory.” 

“Most disturbing, it was, too.”

“I got it back.”

“All of it? Are you sure?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “How can I be sure? We’re talking an eternity of memories!”

“But you do know what you are, I take it, and what I am, and how we’ve spent at least the last six millennia of our many years of existence, yes?” 

“Divine Plan, yeah, I got that. Angel, demon, friends, Arrangement, oysters, crepes, save the world, go to Heaven and back, I got all that.” Crowley shook his head. “Too much stuff in here. Stars. Nebulas. Damnable Lucifer. Boiling pit of sulfur. Snake. Garden. _You_.”

Aziraphale decided Crowley needed a nice lie-down. But it would be better to do so at the bookshop, so that when he awoke, he would be somewhere familiar. “Do you remember how to drive your car? I think we should return to London, where you can get some sleep.”

“The Bentley!” Crowley grinned. “How could I forget my _car?_ I love my car.”

“He might be a little odd for a while,” Anathema put in. “His memory does seem to have returned, though often it comes back in patchwork fashion. It should all be fine after he’s had a rest.”

“I’m fine now!”

“No, you aren’t.” Aziraphale stood, and held out a hand. “You need sleep. Do you think you can drive back to London first?”

“Of course I can bloody well drive.” Crowley took his hand and let himself be pulled up. “I love to drive.” 

“Fine.” Aziraphale turned to Anathema. “I cannot thank you enough. Is there anything I can do to express my gratitude—are you in need of any miracles, perhaps?”

“We’re both fine.” Then she surprised him by kissing his cheek. “Take good care of yourselves.” 

During the drive back to London Crowley listened to his bebop for a while, then turned down the volume. “Don’t think I’ll ever forget that music.”

Aziraphale wished he could, at times—that one recording was all the car seemed to ever play. “It is distinctive, I must say.”

“Someday you’ll like it, I’ll bet. Probably around the 22nd or 23rd century, when you finally catch up to the 21st.”

“Classical music is timeless. I shall still be listening to it then.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

By the time they reached London, Aziraphale felt peckish. He had not eaten all day. So they stopped to get takeout from a Thai place in Soho before returning to the bookshop.

There he insisted on eating upstairs in his small living quarters, in the cozy sitting room. It was nice and close to the bedroom, which would be a more comfortable place for Crowley to rest later.

He brought up one bottle of wine to go with their meal.

“Just the one?” Crowley asked as they settled onto the small sofa.

“You aren’t entirely well yet, are you? I feel you should take it easy. Anathema said you should rest.”

“I’m fine. Completely back to my irritating self.”

“Yes, but since you have recovered your memory, you must know what happened the last time you overindulged.”

“Stupid head bump just needed longer to heal than usual, that’s all that happened, Angel.”

Aziraphale chose to ignore any further requests for more wine. He tucked into his green curry with prawns while Crowley nibbled at a few sticks of chicken satay. He was careful to apportion the wine evenly, not refilling Crowley’s glass until his own was emptied.

When they had finished eating, and had drunk all the wine, Aziraphale sat back and closed his eyes, and he thought about what had occurred when he was working to get Crowley to remember their past together.

Just a declaration of love on both sides, that was all.

He smiled at the memory of their embrace. Just love, only love, that was all. _All_ as in _whole, all_ as in _complete_. Perfect and entire. All, as in everything.

“Angel?” 

Aziraphale felt a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and turned towards Crowley. “You should get some sleep now. Use the bed here.”

Crowley touched the back of his hand against Aziraphale’s cheek. “I can imagine forgetting who I was.” He ran his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. “But I can never imagine forgetting you. Yet I did.”

“Only for a short time.” 

“Any time is too long.” 

“Yes. I agree.” Aziraphale reached out to him, pulled Crowley close, and kissed him.

Or rather, tried to kiss him, for he leaned in at the precise same second that Crowley leaned in, and they bumped noses.

“Oh, dear. So sorry.”

“This is going well.” Crowley pulled back. “Tilt your head—yeah, that’s good. Now don’t _move.”_

Their lips managed to meet on the second attempt, and _oh_ , it was a joyful touch. Crowley somehow found a way to caress Aziraphale’s lips in a most thorough, yet gentle fashion which made his entire body quiver.

“I think humans may be on to something there,” he whispered when the kiss ended.

Crowley responded by yawning.

Aziraphale laughed. “Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Need to rest. Weird day. Foggy head, lots of driving, witchy drink, best friend loves me, remembered too much at once, yadda yadda blah de blah blah.”

“I see you have retained your exquisite command of the English language, my dear.” Aziraphale pushed off the sofa. “Come to bed, please.”

Crowley gazed up at him. “Will you come, too?”

Of course he would. “Yes. Someone ought to keep an eye on you…just in case.”

Crowley rose and followed him into the bedroom. He snapped his fingers, changing his street clothes into pyjamas. Aziraphale took the longer way, carefully undressing and putting things away neatly before donning his own pair. 

The bed was king-sized, yet somehow they found themselves together in the middle, holding each other close.

“Don’t ever let me forget you,” Crowley whispered. 

“Not possible. I was still there, even when your memory wandered off for a while. In your heart, buried deep, and in your soul. As you are in mine. Love was there, no matter how hidden, and it shall be there always.”

Crowley lay his head on Aziraphale’s chest. “I did feel something, this morning. When I couldn’t remember…I never felt any panic, because there was a feeling of comfort everywhere. As if a guardian angel surrounded me with invisible wings.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale said. “I need you, and I love you, and I will always surround you.”

He kissed Crowley, and an eternity of memories of their stolen moments together flooded his mind as their lips met. Crowley kissed him, and an eternity of future moments, open and free, left their promise in his heart.

“Love you too, Angel,” Crowley said simply when their lips parted. He closed his eyes. 

Aziraphale held him in the darkness, and he took deep, slow breaths, and he shut his eyes, and he imagined ethereal wings around them both, and he smiled softly as he counted their imaginary feathers until he drifted off to sleep.


End file.
